


As the Dawn

by Plenoptic



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-08-14 04:20:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20186152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plenoptic/pseuds/Plenoptic
Summary: On a large dark world, Sentinel sends out the call—a new Prime is about to emerge from the Well of All Sparks.





	1. Chapter 1

On a large dark world, Sentinel sends out the call—a new Prime is about to emerge from the Well of All Sparks.

There is no prophecy; the coming is not foretold. Even Sentinel Prime is taken aback, but there can be no denying the sudden pull he feels in his spark, the siren song echoing to him across time and space. It is the first such call in eons—since Sentinel Prime’s emergence the Well of All Sparks has been virtually silent, delivering a scant few Cybertronians, none of them Primes. It is only now, as he makes preparations for his heir’s arrival, that Sentinel realizes the significance of those births—the beings the new Prime will need have emerged into the world just ahead of them. Primus has prepared the world in advance for Its new envoy.

The very orn preparations are complete, Sentinel wastes no time. The delegation departs for the Well that night, escorting the protoform that will house the new Prime. For now, the body is a large, still mass, indistinguishable from a corpse—not until the newspark emerges will its parts move, will energon flow, will it come gasping into life.

They travel in a small passenger ship used by members of the High Council—safe and well-equipped, but not so ostentatious that they’ll draw undue attention as they soar through Cybertron’s luminous cities. Sentinel is preoccupied with the protoform, checking every fine detail, though he knows Iacon’s artisans to be the very best—they created his own frame, after all, when Nova Prime delivered him into the living world. As he inspects the new frame, he glances around the passenger hold, taking account of his companions.

Alpha Trion sits quietly, absorbed in the Covenant, the Quill moving across the pages seemingly of its own accord. Though silent, the Archivist seems frazzled—the future, after all, has taken a sudden and unprecedented turn, as if Primus Itself abruptly decided to alter the trajectory of the universe. The new future is being written, its details unclear, and for the first time since Sentinel Prime’s creation, Alpha Trion himself has a hand in its authorship. For eons now he has become accustomed to the role of observer, transcriber—his new role as participant leaves him trepid.

A much smaller bot sits at his side, peering curiously over his arm at the Covenant—Elita-1, his diligent apprentice, the last Cybertronian birthed from the Well just a few vorns prior. She’d come to Sentinel Prime in agitation the night he felt the call—because she felt it, too. The new Prime calls to her across the void between the Well and the living world, and—despite some hesitation—she’s decided to answer. What need the Prime will have of her remains unclear, but Sentinel Prime thinks her equal to any task, given the trust and care Alpha Trion has placed in her. 

Sentinel’s gaze shifts to the towering mech on Elita’s other side. Cybertron’s future High Protectorate is a megalith of a mech named Megatron, a warrior with an unwieldy temper coupled with a near-seductive charisma. He draws others to him even as he frightens them away. He emerged some time before Elita, wiser and cooler than a typical newspark. When he learned of the role Alpha Trion and the Council had divined for him, he’d only nodded, faceplates impassive. For vorns upon vorns he has waited, a servant born without a master, patiently awaiting the arrival of the newspark that Sentinel is about to guide into the frame that lies between them. Megatron’s optics rest upon the protoform every so often before Elita’s eager chattering steals his attention again. His spark, too, has been an agitated storm since Sentinel received the call.

These two are needed—they’ve been called. The others in the ship are those Sentinel has selected to bear witness to the event. Ultra Magnus, his own High Protectorate, sits at his side—where he has been since the moment of Sentinel’s awakening. Ironhide, the gnarled, gritty warrior from the Taurus states, has volunteered his protection services. More than once Ironhide has flung his own body between Sentinel and an assassin’s weapon, and his scarred frame still bears the proof. He’s pestering the medic, Ratchet, who is pointedly ignoring him in favor of doing last-minute checks on the new Prime’s protoform.

“Ratchet,” Sentinel rumbles, “peace. The frame is ready.”

“So you say,” Ratchet replies, without lifting his gaze, “but when we don’t lose the first Prime sparked in eons due to a minor electrical malfunction, you’ll thank me.”

“Leave him be, Prime.” Ironhide grins, extending a foot to nudge Ratchet’s hip. “Old mech needs to fuss over something to feel useful.”

“You’ve got some nerve calling me old, you rusting pile of scrap.”

“New Prime’s gonna come into the world with a splitting processor ache if the first thing they’ve gotta hear is your grouching.”

“You two,” Ultra Magnus interjects, “enough. Maintain focus.”

“Hmph.” Ironhide sits back in his seat, folding in his arms. “Shoulda picked a fight with Elita. You’d never tell her off.”

Elita glances up from the Covenant, a small frown on her mouthplates. “Please leave me out of this.”

“_Enough_,” Ultra Magnus reiterates, but he’s flustered. It’s no secret that he adores the small femme, as do Ratchet and Ironhide—since the moment of her sparking there’s been some unspoken pact between them to protect her, to prepare her for... whatever comes next. If the new Prime doesn’t treat her with the same care, Sentinel muses, they may find themselves on the receiving end of Ironhide’s favored cannon (which is both of them).

Megatron shifts in his seat. His frame ripples with tension, his EM field drawn close to his dusky silvered plating. Sentinel hopes he’s ready—if such a thing is possible. Megatron’s entire existence has been leading him to this point, to the Prime he’ll live to serve. His apprenticeship under Ultra Magnus has been harrowing, that much Sentinel knows, but that will make him a more than capable High Protectorate, an extension of the new Prime’s very will.

As Sentinel watches, Elita settles a small hand on Megatron’s knee, offers him a smile when he looks down at her. After a pause, he returns it, places his hand on hers. The gesture is sweet and simple.

And it sends an inexplicable ripple of anxiety through Sentinel’s spark.

* * *

The Well of All Sparks is sacred ground, and though it is the place of his birth, Sentinel still trembles, ever so slightly, when he sets foot upon it. Though he expects no trouble, Ultra Magnus still prepares for it; he sticks to the Prime’s side, rifle drawn and optics darting about the surrounding area as the rest of their company unload the protoform, now strapped into a med-evac stretcher. Not the most ceremonious of items, but Ratchet insisted—he’s without an aide, but the stretcher comes equipped with everything he’ll need to stabilize the newspark should something go wrong. Sentinel’s allowed it—he prefers caution to ceremony.

Once the frame is unloaded, he’s gratified to see that Megatron hovers close to the stretcher. Whether his guardian protocols are already active or he simply knows his duty well, the Protectorate seems ready. Elita stays near Alpha Trion, but as they disembark, Sentinel senses the frenetic energy from her field, subtle enough that no one else—save Trion, perhaps—is likely to notice. She’s nervous. She should be. She was a newspark not so long ago, and now she’s been called by forces far beyond the comprehension of even a seasoned mechanism. Sentinel rests a hand on her shoulder, sends a soothing pulse from his field across hers, and she steadies a little, looking up at him with a solemn nod.

There’s nothing more to do but get on with it. Sentinel leads the way into the massive domed structure that houses the Well’s entrance. They’re on the outskirts of Crystal City, its lights flickering behind them. The dome needs no guards—only in the presence of a Prime will its hidden doors slide open, as they do now, under the gentle pressure of Sentinel’s hand. Blue light skitters across the doors’ surface, illuminating the tendrils of sleeping circuitry. Sentinel feels a rush in his spark as the doors make way for their procession, a quickening—anticipation crackles along his field.

The dome is empty save for a single pedestal standing in its center. Sentinel leads the way in, Ironhide and Ratchet wheeling the stretcher behind him. They approach the pedestal, and Sentinel spreads his hand over its plain face. Glyphs alight beneath his fingertips, and he traces a path across letters only he recognizes, smiling in spite of himself—this place feels familiar. Its walls radiate soft light, dancing blues and whites and golds, creating a sense of safety and nostalgia. It’s as if the site itself is welcoming him home.

With a pneumatic hiss, blue light illuminates a circle on the ground, and the floor beneath their feet begins to lower, revealing a circular platform. Ratchet clutches the gurney, intakes sputtering as the platform sinks below the floor, carrying them into the depths. The blue light travels with them, brightening veins of energon that crisscross the tunnel into which they descend, skirting the floor, lengthening their shadows.

They descend for a long while, long enough that Sentinel stops keeping track. His spark flares against his chestplates as they draw closer to its source. By the time the platform finally comes to a halt, the pressure in his chest has become nearly painful. He struggles to steady his intakes as he and his party step from the platform. Angling his body so the touch will escape their comrades’ view, Ultra Magnus presses a guiding hand to the Prime’s lower back, nudging him forward. The touch is both reminder and reassurance, and it helps Sentinel’s spark settle somewhat.

They’ve stepped into a large room, empty save for an immense pair of doors. The walls and floor rumble faintly—behind them lie the mechanisms of the planet itself, Primus’s dormant body pumping energon to the surface. Sentinel rests his hand upon the nearest wall, and his spark _sears_. Suddenly the urge to be closer to the Well is almost unbearable—he hasn’t been so close to his Creator since his own sparking, eons ago.

“Sentinel,” Ultra Magnus says from behind him. “We’ll wait here.”

“Yes.” Sentinel gathers himself and turns to the stretcher, pulls back the sheet that covers the protoform. It’s a massive frame, one befitting a Prime, but it lacks color and detail. Primus will be the final artisan. “Megatron?”

Megatron steps forward. He undoes the straps holding the protoform to the stretcher, almost with the tenderness of a lover, and lifts the protoform into his arms, grunting a little under its weight. Sentinel extends a hand, but withdraws at a quick shake of Megatron’s helm. Cradling the body that will carry his Prime, Megatron heads toward the doors. Sentinel turns to Elita. She hesitates, glancing up at Alpha Trion, who urges her forward with a hand on her upper back, smiling.

“Go,” he says. “I’ll be right here.”

Sucking a deep breath into her intakes, she hurries to match pace with Megatron. Sentinel looks after them a moment. He exchanges a look with Magnus, who rests his rifle upon his shoulder and nods. Ironhide crosses his arms over his shoulders and offers an upward jerk of his chin.

“We’ll be ready,” Ratchet says.

Sentinel looks at them each in turn, nods, and follows the young Cybertronians to the doors of the Well of All Sparks.

These doors, too, respond to his touch, parting with a cataclysmic rumbling and grinding of ancient gears that make Sentinel’s audios ring. He can hear Elita’s intakes whistling faintly, Megatron’s struts creaking under the weight of the new Prime’s frame. They’re young, he thinks, suddenly panicked—too young for this, for the duty that’s been placed upon them, the burden. But then the doors open fully, and he sees it—the light. Shining, it beckons him forward. For a moment they stand in the doorway, frozen—and then Megatron steps forward, and again, growing bolder with every step. Elita utters a soft “_Oh_” as she follows, both of them surging into the light, called by a voice only they can hear. Sentinel trails after them, and the massive doors close.

The Well lies before them, a massive halo in the floor radiating a column of iridescent light. Megatron’s knees buckle—perhaps under the frame’s weight, or perhaps in awe. Or both. Elita catches his arm and helps him back up. There’s an urgency in her touch, a desperate yearning in the way her optics gaze at the Well. Sentinel hovers behind them, lets them approach the Well at their own pace.

“I can hear him.” Elita whirls around, looks at Sentinel a little wildly. “I can—I _hear_him.”

Megatron stiffens. “I don’t hear anything.”

“Listen—”

Sentinel steps forward, places a hand on Megatron’s shoulder. “Kneel.”

Megatron does, with obvious relief, keeping the Prime’s protoform cradled close. Elita falls to her knees beside him, extending one hand toward the Well. Sentinel catches her hand and places it gently upon the protoform instead as he steps around them.

“Open its chestplates, Elita.”

After a moment, she does, turning to look down at the protoform and easing its chesplates apart. They open easily.

“Megatron, link into its systems.” Sentinel comes to a halt before the Well, craning his helm, but he can’t see its top—the column of light reaches up into the vast dark overhead. He knows it bottoms out only at the core of the planet itself. “When I tell you, you’ll need to bring the sparkcase online. Do you remember what comes next?”

“I have to initiate a bond.” Megatron answers without hesitation, but his voice wavers. “To stabilize it.”

“Him,” Elita murmurs. Sentinel glances back at her. Her trembling fingertips trace the protoform’s faceplates, her other hand pressed tightly to her chest as if it pains her. Sentinel gazes at her, suddenly astounded that it’s taken him this long to understand why the new Prime has been calling for her. Giving his head a shake, he turns back to the Well.

“I’m going to begin.”

“Hurry,” Elita entreats softly. Sentinel smiles, and extends his hands into the Well.

The warmth is astounding. It settles into his plating, crawls up his arms, whirls around his spark. He’s overcome by a sensation of ease, of peace. The pain in his spark evaporates. He peers at his hands through the unending light, sees a blue mass coalescing between his palms. It’s bright, and warm—an utterly gentle presence. Not even fully formed and he can feel its resilience, its spirit. Nova Prime stood here once, cradling him thus, knowing him in his entirety before Sentinel had so much as gasped his first breath.

The spark is full, brilliant. Sentinel stays, just a moment longer, just to touch the light of his origin for another sparkbeat—and then, when he knows it to be ready, he steps back, the newspark cradled in his hands. A field springs up around his hands, encasing the spark, stabilizing it, and he turns on his heel and hurries to the waiting protoform with wide strides.

Megatron and Elita, both clutching the frame, stare at the newspark with wide optics as he crouches before them.

“Ready,” Sentinel murmurs, lowering his hands toward the protoform’s open chest. “Megatron?”

“Yes,” the young mech says hoarsely.

Sentinel steels himself, and then lowers the spark. He’s only closed half the distance when the spark slips out of his hands, rushing into the chest cavity as if magnetically attracted. Sentinel doesn’t need to give the command—Megatron, hand cradled around the back of the protoform’s neck to connect to its medical access port, raises the crystalline sparkcasing at once. The spark flares brightly, hot white light pouring off its corona, and the protoform shudders in Megatron’s grasp. Its plate twitch, electricity zipping along the exposed circuitry in its chest. The delicate plating of its face begins to shift, rearranging; chromatic cells activate with a low hum, and the planes of its armor begin to fill with color. Blue lines race up and down the body, the spark settling into its new home, struggling to achieve symbiosis.

With a pneumatic hiss, Megatron’s chestplates open. His own spark, a rich, dark purple, pulses in its chamber, flares extending off its surface, reaching for its Prime. His duty done, Sentinel shuffles backward. Acting on instinct, Megatron and Elita readjust; he eases the Prime’s frame into her lap, letting her cradle the head and shoulders while he bends over its torso. He hesitates—just for a moment—before leaning down to touch the crest of his helm to the Prime’s, a shudder running through his frame, his optics dark, reverent. He lowers his chest and hisses when tendrils of light arc from his spark, dipping into the Prime’s, purple and blue mingling, a nebula of light filling the space between their open chests. Elita rests a hand on the back of Megatron’s helm, holds tight to the protoform’s shoulder with the other as the body rocks.

Something’s wrong—Sentinel can sense it. The newspark is in distress. By now the protoform should be coming online, but save for the titanic shudders that rattle its plates, the optics stay dark, its limbs still. Megatron suddenly snarls and lunges forward, pressing his chest into the Prime’s with a violent shake of his helm.

“No—_no! _Don’t you dare—Optimus—”

Sentinel sucks in a breath. They’re close. He begins to move forward, without the slightest clue how he can help, and then Elita’s hands move, dipping into the Prime’s chest as Megatron pulls back.

“Help,” the Protectorate snarls, reaching for her, grasping her arm. “I can’t—”

“I know.” She cups her hands around the Prime’s spark and her optics shutter. “I know. Hold onto him, Megatron. Don’t let go.”

He shudders and bows his shoulders, pressing his helm hard against the Prime’s. The protoform gives one last shiver and falls still. A cold sensation seeps into Sentinel’s spark, his fingers digging into the floor, pump racing.

Something pulses through Elita One’s field—a rush of energy so shocking that Sentinel feels it rattle his sparkcase. Megatron cries out—and then a brilliant arc of blue light rises from the Prime’s chest, seizing hold of Megatron’s spark, dragging him close. The protoform surges, its limbs suddenly convulsing, chest surging upward, and a loud gasp rattles its intakes as its optics come online, twin blue orbs open wide as they take in their first look at the world.

Megatron jerks backward, hissing in pain and closing his chestplates, but he maintains his grip on the new Prime as the newsparked mech gasps again, shuddering, trembling hands lifting and reaching blindly.

“Here,” Megatron croaks, seizing a searching hand and holding it to his chestplates, which have been singed by the intensity of their bonding. “I’m right here.”

Elita clasps the other hand, holds it over the Prime’s chest, cradling his faceplates as his sparkcase seals and his chestplates snap closed. “Optimus,” she says, and laughs shakily when his optics flare and his helm tips back to look at her. “_Optimus. _You did it.”

The Prime doesn’t reply—can’t, perhaps. His helm tilts into the cradle of her hand, and his optics offline, shutter. A low sigh filters through his vents.

“It’s alright,” Sentinel says, when Elita looks at him in alarm. “He’s alright. But we need to get him to the others.”

Megatron nods, doesn’t protest when Sentinel lifts the new Prime—Optimus—into his arms. He looks dazed, stunned by the enormity of what has just happened, but Sentinel doesn’t want to risk time waiting on ceremony. He ushers them both on. They all stagger to their feet, casting glances back at the beckoning warmth of the Well as they struggle toward the doors. They part at Sentinel’s touch, and Ultra Magnus is there to catch him the moment he stumbles into the adjoining room. Ratchet and Ironhide are quick to relieve him of the newspark’s weight, easing the Prime onto the stretcher. Megatron tries to follow and buckles; it’s only then that Sentinel realizes the Protectorate is bleeding, bright blue energon streaming between his fingers where they’re clutched to his chestplates.

“I’ve got him,” Magnus says, before Sentinel can so much as call for help. The High Protectorate crouches over his protégé, forcing his hand away from the injury. “You’re fine, lad. A few lines melted during the merge. Easy now.” He glances up, and his mouthplates furrow. “Sentinel—Elita.”

The Prime turns. Elita’s on her knees, trembling, her intakes whistling at an alarming pitch. An infrared scan confirms that her internal temperatures have skyrocketed, and the distress pouring off her EM field is enough to make Sentinel’s plating crawl. Sentinel hurries to her, folding her small frame beneath his arm and hurriedly plugging into her medical port. He locates the malady quickly—her energy reserves are below critical.

“Trion,” he says sharply. The ancient mech looks up from the new Prime’s prone form, and with speed that shouldn’t be possible for a frame so old, he rushes to take Elita into his arms. “It’s her reserves—I don’t know what happened.”

“I used it,” Elita gasps, and a shudder wracks her frame. “I used it—I’m sorry—he was going to—”

“Shh, brightspark. It’s alright. You did well. I’m going to put you into medical power down now.” Sentinel withdraws from her medical access, and a moment later her optics darken, her frame going slack in Trion’s arms.

“Used it?—What does she mean?”

Trion only shakes his head, getting to his feet, Elita’s small frame cradled to his chest. “Later, Prime. Magnus, is Megatron well enough to travel?”

“He’ll be fine,” Magnus says, finishing up a rough cauterization under Megatron’s chestplates, his protégé wincing through the treatment. “I administered an injection of repair nanites and repaired the worst leaks. He’ll hold until Ratchet can take a look.”

“Our new Prime is stable, not that anyone asked,” Ratchet pipes up, still bent over the mech’s still frame. “I’m reading damage already to his sparkcase. What happened in there?”

“A rough transfer. Can we move him?”

“Yes. The sooner we can get all three of them into medical bay, the better.” Ratchet looks up at Sentinel with a sigh. “You Primes are almost more trouble than you’re worth.”

* * *

Sentinel stirs when something knocks gently against his helm. He looks upward, blinking blearily, at the energon cube Ultra Magnus holds out to him.

“Refuel,” Magnus says—not an order, quite, but certainly not a request. “Your reserves are getting low. I recommend that you retire to your quarters.”

“Noted,” Sentinel says, but makes no move to stand. He accepts the cube and knocks half of it back. Magnus grunts, apparently satisfied, and lowers his immense frame onto the couch beside his Prime. They both turn their attention toward the single berth in the room, and the precious mech stretched upon it.

The new Prime looks magnificent—tall and broad-shouldered, his armor plating a rich mix of crimson and navy and silver. There’s no mistaking Primus’s touch, the lingering aura of solemn nobility that no mortal artisan could hope to convey. Optimus Prime remains deep in medical stasis, his new body hooked up to every nutrient-enriched energon Ratchet could scrounge up, a fleet of monitors observing and cataloguing every bit of microdata available.

For the several joors since their return, Megatron—the broken lines around his sparkcase freshly repaired—hasn’t moved from the Prime’s berthside. His favored weapon, a wicked battleaxe nearly as tall as he is, sits propped against his chair. He sits unmoving, optics fixed on the Prime’s lax faceplates, a curious storm of emotions racing across his normally controlled field.

“I remember it,” Magnus murmurs. “That first night.”

“You were just a little older than he.”

“Mm.” Magnus shifts, stretching a knee joint until it pops with a wince.

“Any regrets?”

“None. I wouldn’t trade a moment of it, Prime.”

“The road ahead of him is difficult.”

“And well worth it.”

The door slides open, and Ratchet enters, carrying a tray topped with new nutrient bags. He acknowledges Sentinel and Magnus with a grunt before approaching the berth, busying himself with swapping out the bags, working around Megatron’s hulking form without complaint.

“Welds holding?” he asks of the Protectorate. “Need anything for the pain?”

“No.” Megatron doesn’t shift his gaze from Optimus’s face. “When will he wake?”

“We’ll try bringing him around in the morning. He’s been through a lot—you all have. Give it some time.”

Megatron releases a frustrated vent. Ratchet pats his shoulder, checks Optimus’s vitals, and joins the mechs watching from the back of the room.

“Everything quiet, I assume.”

“Yes.” Magnus procures another energon cube, seemingly from nowhere, and hands it up to the medic. “How is Elita?”

“Exhausted. Whatever she did in there probably kept that newspark’s frame from rejecting it, but it took a lot out of her. Trion’s looking after her—I didn’t have the first clue what to do for her.”

“Will she…?”

“He seems confident she’ll recover.” Ratchet shrugs one shoulder, nursing his energon. “We’ll see. You two should recharge. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

Sentinel shakes his head. “I won’t leave them.”

Ratchet sighs and rolls his optics upwards. “And Magnus won’t leave you. Right. There are empty berths next room over, but don’t disturb my patients.”

“We won’t—and he’s gone,” Sentinel grumbles, scowling at the door as it whooshes shut.

Magnus hums and gets to his feet, heading out the door, but he returns a moment later, wheeling in an empty berth. He pushes it up alongside the recharging Prime’s and nudges Megatron’s shoulder. “Megatron. Recharge.”

“Not until—”

“When he wakes, he’ll be disoriented. Frightened. He’ll need you at your full alertness.” Magnus jostles him again. “Looking after the Prime means looking after yourself, as well. You’re no good to him like this. Now do your duty.”

After a moment, Megatron grunts an assent and gets to his feet, easing himself onto the berth. He reaches for his battleaxe, but Magnus lifts it out of arms’ reach, silencing his apprentice’s protest with a single raised optic ridge.

“Recharge,” he reiterates, and rejoins Sentinel on the couch, setting Megatron’s axe aside. The Protectorate glares at him a moment longer before settling back against the berth, and barely a few astroseconds have passed before a deep sigh from his intakes signals the start of his recharge cycle.

“Well argued,” Sentinel chuckles, offering his High Protectorate a smile.

“Young punk. For all the discipline I’ve beaten into him, I haven’t beaten out an ounce of his stubbornness.”

“On the contrary, I daresay you’ve beaten some of _that _into him, as well,” Sentinel retorts. “He looks at Optimus the way you’ve always looked at me. He’s ready.”

Magnus heaves a sigh. “We’ll see. Tell me how the transfer went. How did he do?”

“It was difficult. But it wasn’t his fault. He did well.”

“He should have been enough. Why was Elita needed as well?”

“Ah.” Sentinel smiles. “She’s his sparkmate.”

“What?” Magnus turns to face him fully, optic ridges raised. “Optimus’s? How do you know?”

“If you’d seen her in there, you’d know too.”

“That’s…” Magnus sits back, shaking his helm. “Unprecedented. Neither you, nor Nova Prime…”

“I know. Surely Trion’s told you, though—his split-spark theory?”

“That all sparks are paired while in the Well of All Sparks. Yes, I know. It seems a bit…” Magnus grimaces and tips his hand back and forth. “Well. It’s very _Trion_.”

“In any case, I think it likely he’s known all along that Elita would be needed to help spark the new Prime. He’s scarcely let her out of his sight from the moment she emerged. And whatever she did to help stabilize Optimus in the Well…”

“Trion’s doing?”

“Almost certainly.”

Magnus huffs a deep vent, folding his arms across his massive chestplates. “I don’t like it. He should have given us every bit of information necessary to ensure a safe transfer.”

“It’s done,” Sentinel replies mildly, shrugging. “Trion is mysterious. He’s seen many Primes before me and he’ll likely see many after. Forgive him his strange ways.”

“We’ll see,” Magnus retorts—by far his favorite response. He shifts in his seat. “If Elita _is _to be the Prime’s bonded, the Council will need to be notified. We’ll need to make other arrangements, as well.”

“She’s his _sparkmate_. Whether they bond is up to them.”

“Surely it’s a foregone conclusion.”

“Sparks aren’t so simple.” Sentinel’s optics flicker between Optimus and Megatron. He lied to Magnus earlier—Megatron doesn’t look at Optimus precisely the way Magnus looks at him. Not quite. But Sentinel suspects that it’s his sensitivity toward his fellow Cybertronians that made him notice. Magnus certainly appears none the wiser. “Leave the Council out of it for now. Let them be. You know these first few cycles are precious.”

Magnus grunts. “We’ll see.”

Sentinel chuckles at that. “So we shall.”

And they would. For better or for worse, Sentinel Prime and Ultra Magnus would bear witness to all that was to come.


	2. Chapter 2

On a smaller, brighter world, Alchemist Prime hears the call, and sets to work.

The universe, for a long time, has been strangely still, like untroubled waters. Alchemist Prime has seen many such bodies of water over the past eons—crystal-clear placid lakes, seas that don’t roil, brackish ponds teeming with life. Organic worlds, it seems, cannot help but to burst at their seams with water. If it doesn’t rest on the planetary surface, it caps the poles; if it doesn’t cap the poles, it whirls about the atmosphere. It has been Alchemist Prime’s primary research topic for millennia now. He is particularly fascinated by the matrices water molecules form when exposed to different frequencies of sound.

One morning, from his small research station in the verdant forest that covers the world he’s called home for the last several vorns, the water molecules he is observing crystallize very strangely. He has exposed water before to this particular frequency, and is repeating the experiment only because he finds the resultant matrix particularly pleasing to the optic. But this formation is something entirely new.

Wind rustles the lush green-and-purple beyond his front door, as if to whisper, _the call. The Arisen._Alchemist Prime shutters his optics and listens intently. Yes, he can hear it—a distant rumble, a quaking, the universe’s strings vibrating at a new pitch. Waves travel from some epicenter at a galactic core not so far away from his small planet. The god-world trembles and the universe trembles back.

In a matter of a few orns, Alchemist Prime packs up his research station, returning it to the Void between planes, and bids farewell to the green world. When it is discovered and settled by a space-faring race of organic bipedals some thousand vorns later, there is no evidence that Alchemist Prime was ever there—save, of course, for the fact that some of the world’s water molecules have learned to form truly novel crystalline matrices.

Returning to Cybertron, of course, means that he will have to put his water studies on hold. This disappoints him, but as he accesses his deep directories and recalls the abundance of molecular wonders awaiting him on the god-world, he feels his curiosity begin to recover. Water will be there later, he supposes, once this chapter is over and done. He hopes, all the same, that it won’t be a long one.

Getting to Cybertron takes longer than he anticipated. He thought he knew the way back, but the space between he and the god-world has been altered by the passage of time and bodies. Many of the spacebridges have become defunct; they hang unlit and unresponsive, visible only if there is some starlight that infiltrates the great emptiness of space. They seem to Alchemist Prime a bit like corpses, and he shivers when he passes them.

As his favored spacebridge path is no longer an option, Alchemist Prime resolves to commit his energy to a faster, but more hazardous route. He parts the Great Empty as if it were only so many hanging vines, slipping beyond and through the fabrics that hold space-time together, and pops out at the other end of his tunnels some thousand light-years from where he entered. This mode of travel consumes his energy, but also leaves small wounds in space-time—wounds that could be exploited, were someone with the means and ill intent were to encounter them. Alchemist travels this way sparingly, making as few leaps as possible, and once he finds an outpost world inhabited by something that resembles a Cybertronian, he uses the mass displacer Solus gave him all those vorns ago to assume a mortal-looking form and walk among them.

He has been alone for a long time, and the bustle and flow of the small planetoid is overwhelming. He learns their language quickly and charts himself a path from the planetoid to the god-world, a long journey that will take cycles to complete. No one on the planetoid knows of Cybertron by name; the world where their ancestors were born is a distant legend to them, an origin story told to their young, not a place where the living can tread.

The planetoid’s currency consists of small cubes of a precious local alloy. Alchemist transmutes himself enough to charter passage on a supply vessel that travels a long and harrowing path between several outposts, which form a loose alliance of confederated worlds eking out a humble existence at the fringes of the galactic cluster. The nearest functioning spacebridge, as far as he can gather, is light-years away.

Alchemist bunks himself down in the ship’s hold to prepare for the long voyage ahead. He accesses his directories and settles into the old entries about energon—specifically, about high grade.

* * *

Grief for those lost strikes at odd times, in strange places. Alpha Trion didn’t feel it when he delivered the new Prime’s protoform to Sentinel, nor did he feel it when he watched Sentinel, Elita, and Megatron step into the chamber containing the Well of All Sparks, which had been created—unbeknownst to them, of course—when the body of Solus Prime fell back into Primus’s core. Alpha Trion hadn’t set foot in the place since the Primes Onyx and Micronus followed her, but even standing there again hadn’t stirred his spark to grief.

What brought back the full weight of his loss—his many losses, rather—was watching over Elita that night, as he worked carefully to repair the damage she’d done to her body when she used Vector Prime’s gift to save Optimus’s spark. Gazing at her, her features just barely illuminated in the dim light of his studio, Alpha Trion suddenly felt more lonely than he’d ever felt in his long, long life—lonelier than he’d felt the day they erected Solus’s tomb, lonelier than he’d felt watching Onyx and Micronus plummet into the light, lonelier than he’d been when even Quintus and Vector slipped away, leaving him behind.

Elita stirs. Her optics flutter open and online, and she looks at him, her expression contemplative.

“I’m the only one who stayed,” he tells her in a whisper.

Her optics shutter, reopen. She seems to be having trouble focusing, but she attempts a reply. “Why?”

“Why did I stay?” Alpha Trion chuckles, shakes his head. “I don’t know. I suppose…I simply thought someone should. Somehow, leaving seemed the same as… abandoning her. Him. Them. I couldn’t leave them.” He looks down at his hands, once warrior’s hands, turns them over. “Which is more painful, do you suppose?—to leave behind, or to be the one left?”

She has slipped back into recharge. Alpha Trion checks her vitals once more before stepping outside, into the dark, to gaze instead at the dimmed lights of the city stretched out around him. A few times in the past, he’s felt a tug, an urging, something from beyond the god-world calling to him. Other futures, other pasts, other extant selves he could be. He always resisted, and now he certainly can’t leave.

Well. He could. But Elita can’t, and he won’t leave her behind. Not now that the universe, it seems, is finally spinning back home to him.

Alpha Trion returns to his studio and opens the Covenant. For the first time in eons, the futures spread before him are reducible and simple. The universe will either be made anew, or it will pull what has already unfolded into the present. Never before has the fate of their world, of all worlds, been so delicate, has it hinged so directly and deliberately upon so few sparks and upon the single choice they will have to make.

Alpha Trion turns back the pages, finds the words he’s always avoided, because he can still see it in his mind’s eye, as vividly as if it’s happening before him again—Onyx’s great wings, Micronus’s small form clutched against him, tumbling down, down, into the light. And their brother, his name enshrined behind a latticework of scars that cover Alpha Trion’s aged spark, turning back to them, smiling at them that final time, raising a hand at the close as he had at the opening. Making a promise. Taking a step. Falling.

If this is it—the fulfillment of that promise—Alpha Trion isn’t ready for it. It has come too soon, and too late. It’s too late. He’s already been left behind. He can’t ever be as he was.

He turns, looks back at the femme resting in his small domicile. Alpha Trion feels something new rising up alongside the grief. Fear, yes. Hope. That nibbling loneliness. But something else, as well—something for which he doesn’t, for the moment, have a name.

* * *

Retrieving the newsparked Prime from the Well was mostly a terrifying affair—now that the spark has stabilized, his frame is ready, and his attendants are prepared, Sentinel lets himself feel excited to meet the mech who will someday inherit his mantle of leadership. He feels fortunate that the new Prime walks the planet already—his time with Nova was limited, sparked as he was so close to the elder Prime’s foretold end. Sentinel spent only a few precious vorns with his mentor before Nova disappeared across the stars, leaving his protégé to begin his Primacy alone and virtually unguided.

They debate awhile where to awaken the new Prime—Ratchet advocates hard for his medical bay, of course, and several High Councilors send Sentinel tittering messages that the Prime should awake before them. Sentinel himself is unsure. In the end, he asks Megatron, who gazes at his new Prime’s still form for a few long astroseconds before replying, “Somewhere quiet. He needs the quiet.”

Sentinel settles on the quarters that have been prepared to accommodate Cybertron’s future leader. Ultra Magnus has, of course, stocked them with every luxury he so determinedly offered Sentinel—a full oil bath, a generously supplied library, three personal berthrooms, a modest office, an energon storage and preparation area, a common area with a view overlooking all of Iacon. That Megatron will share these quarters is a foregone conclusion; Sentinel is a touch surprised when Elita quickly takes him up on his offer to share living quarters with the new Prime. He was sure that she would choose to remain with Alpha Trion, but, like Megatron, from the moment she was recovered enough to do so, she’s been reluctant to leave Optimus’s side.

“You’re sure Megatron is meant to be High Protectorate?” Ratchet asks Sentinel as they prepare for the awakening. “Elita seems to be angling for the job.”

He means it in jest, of course—but something about the mere suggestion unsettles Sentinel’s spark. He reserves to keep a closer optic on all three of them over the next few cycles, as Optimus and Megatron solidify the precious bond they forged by the Well of All Sparks, and as Elita’s future as the Prime’s sparkmate becomes clearer.

The awakening itself is intimate and private. Even Ultra Magnus hovers outside the quarters, standing guard with Ironhide, and as soon as Ratchet administers the drug needed to lift the Prime from his medically-induced powerdown, the medic excuses himself, assuring Sentinel he’ll remain close by should any troubles arise.

Which leaves Sentinel to watch over the young Cybertronians as their Prime comes online.

He awakens slowly. Elita and Megatron sit on the berth on either side of him, anticipation rippling from their fields, the excitement pulsing through them so contagious that even Sentinel can’t help but smile. As Optimus’s optics unshutter and flicker online, Elita positively beams, lowering a caressing hand to his faceplate, murmuring down at him as he moves his head toward her touch.

For a few long moments, Optimus only gazes up at her, blue optics wide—then he tilts his helm, looking at Megatron, and a flash of recognition crosses his faceplates. He lifts a trembling hand, presses it to Megatron’s chest, and the Protectorate’s optics dim.

“Yes,” he murmurs, a response to the unasked question, and leans down, presses his helm to the Prime’s, clasping the dark-hued hand clutching at his chestplates. “It’s me.”

Optimus still doesn’t speak, but his chestplates abruptly open with a pneumatic hiss, revealing the soft, ethereal light of his spark. Sentinel runs a quick scan and is relieved to find that both the spark and the frame it inhabits are stable. Megatron glances back at the elder Prime, seeking permission, and Sentinel nods.

“You can bond with him. Gently.”

Still looking wary, Megatron allows his armored plates to part, leaning down and shifting his frame to cover the Prime’s. Optimus clutches him, keening softly when their sparks meet and mingle. Megatron brushes his mouth along the crest of the Prime’s helm, murmuring down at him in words ancient and broken—the Protectorate’s vow, the one Magnus has made him recite thrice daily since the orn of his awakening.

Elita only watches, occasionally brushing small, soothing touches along Optimus’s frame when he shivers and arches from the intensity of bonding with his Protectorate. It will be a while yet before his spark has matured enough that the bond will solidify—until then, these regular half-merges will nourish and sustain him, ease him into the living world, build trust and intimacy between he and Megatron until they are two halves of one whole. Symbiosis—and the pleasure, power, and peace those merges will bring—is a long way off. For now, the dark nebula of Megatron’s spark will be the only safety Optimus knows. 

At length, Megatron sits up, hissing a little as his and Optimus’s sparks recede into their respective casings, forcing his chestplates closed with a rough hand. Optimus, trembling, continues to gaze up at him, chest open, spark flaring. Megatron strokes a claw along his sparkcasing, and a shudder wracks the Prime’s frame.

“Close for me,” Megatron says lowly, withdrawing the intimate touch and pressing his palm to the side of the Prime’s chestplates. He gently removes the hand that Optimus touches to his chest. “Later. I’ll hurt you if we force it, my Prime.” He glances at Elita, and she leans forward to help him ease the Prime’s chestplates closed once more, covering the bright light of his spark.

“Is he alright?” she asks, glancing over at Sentinel, who was so entranced by the sheer mysticism and heightened sacredness of the moment that he has to shake himself a little to reply.

“Yes.” He remembers well his first few orns outside of the Well—that constant state of bewilderment and fear, the feeling of the world being upended, unsteady. He only felt safe when Magnus’s spark was on his, grounding him, holding him together. Sentinel gets to his feet and joins the young bots on the berth, extending a hand to Optimus, who eyes it warily for a moment before taking it. He helps the newsparked Prime sit up, slipping briefly into his medical port to check his systems. “Can you tell me your name?”

A pause—and then the new Prime speaks, finally, in a voice low and warm, deeper and calmer than dark, still waters. “Optimus.”

“Do you know where you are?”

“Cybertron.”

“And how you came to be here?”

“I…” Optimus Prime pauses, his optic ridges knitting in concentration. “I was…called. I needed to…” He stops again, lifting a hand to his helm, a wave of distress pouring off his field.

Sentinel grips his hand tightly, steadies him, extends his own field and its radiating calm across all three of them, enveloping them. “It’s difficult to emerge from the Well,” he says gently, squeezing Optimus’s hand. “To split from the consciousness of the Creator and experience individuality in a physical frame. I remember it well. But we are here to help, Optimus. You are safe with us.”

Optimus looks between them, his field smoothing a little. “I…know you. All of you.” His gaze shifts, rests on Elita. “This isn’t our first meeting.”

“No.” She touches his face, smiling. “It’s not.”

“I don’t remember the first.”

“Me neither.”

He returns her smile, just a soft little quirk of his mouthplates, and he lifts his hand to mirror her tender touch, fingertips mapping the contours and angles of her elegant helm. “Elita. Yes?”

“Yeah,” she says, and laughs. “Nice to meet you. Sort of.”

“Megatron,” the Protectorate says, as Optimus’s gaze falls on him. “Your Protectorate.” He clasps the hand Optimus offers him, holds it tight to his chest. “I’ve been waiting for you, my Prime.”

“Protectorate,” Optimus repeats, his voice soft with awe.

“_Your _Protectorate.”

“Mine.” Optimus pauses, considering. “What does that mean?”

“I am yours to do with as you will,” Megatron replies simply. “My body, my mind, my spark, my very life.”

Optimus’s response is a quiet “Oh” and nothing more, his optics dimming, a frown touching his mouthplates. Sentinel is nonplussed—he, too, couldn’t make anything of Magnus’s unwavering claims of loyalty, didn’t understand what it meant to be loved the way a Protectorate loved their Prime until vorns after their bond was solidified. He grasps Optimus’s shoulder.

“And you know me, young one. As I know you.”

Optimus looks at him, nods. “Sentinel. I called you, and you—awakened me.”

“I did. Happily.” Sentinel draws the young mech close, presses their helms together, clasping a hand to the back of Optimus’s neck. “I’m glad you’re here.”

* * *

Three orns later, Megatron still can’t recharge. Every time his optics finally drift closed, the Protectorate protocols activate with a fury, compelling him to swing his legs from the comfort of his berth and patrol the quarters, check exits, run scans, clean his axe and his guns. He can’t rest—from the moment the new Prime emerged from the Well, every astrosecond of Megatron’s existence has been hyper-focused on his well-being.

His third patrol of the night, having wandered through rooms he knows are empty, he looks back in on the berthroom they’ve come to share. Optimus and Elita are curled upon it, not quite touching. Optimus’s recharge is clearly fitful; his legs twitch, optic shutters fluttering, a soft hitch interrupting what should be the steady pace of his vents. Megatron crosses the room and rests a hand upon the Prime’s helm, brushing a thumb along his audial until the huge frame settles a little. Sentinel warned him that the transition would be difficult, for all of them—Optimus has to adjust, as had Megatron and Elita, to this new phase of his very existence, and Megatron must cope with the constant, unrelenting pressures of his Protectorate codes. Elita hovers somewhere between them, desperately needed for reasons still unknown. For now, all they know is that Optimus can’t recharge unless she’s near.

Optimus whines, a low, struggling sound deep in his chest, and Megatron winces at the sharp sensation of distress filtering through their fledgling bond.

“Can you do anything?”

Megatron glances up at Elita’s soft inquiry. Her hand has wandered across the berth to clasp Optimus’s, her thumb absently stroking his knuckles. Megatron nods and lowers himself to the berth, pressing up against Optimus’s back, and wraps an arm around the mech to press a hand to his broad chestplates. He releases a low-intensity magnetic pulse, feels Optimus shudder under his touch.

“Is he hurting?” Elita asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

“No.” Megatron issues another mag pulse and hums as Optimus’s spark starts to settle, the tension melting from his EM field. “I don’t think so. He’s just uneasy.”

“What does it feel like? His spark.”

Megatron considers, lowering his mouth to the back of the Prime’s helm, optics dimming. “Quiet,” he says at length. “Gentle.” He smiles at her, flashing his dentae. “You’ll like it.”

“Stop,” she snorts. But he sees her optics shift, her gaze lingering on the clawed hand spread across the Prime’s chest.

“You know Sentinel Prime thinks you’re his sparkmate.”

“Sentinel can be wrong; it’s been known to happen. Occasionally.” She winces a little, shrugging one shoulder. “Okay, once.”

“He’s right about this.”

“We’ll see.” Elita touches Optimus’s faceplate, a small smile warming her features. She’s beautiful, Megatron thinks, trailing a last soothing mag pulse across Optimus’s chest before rising from the berth. As is Optimus. They’ll be good for each other.

For some reason, that thought twists his spark.


End file.
